Play me your homemade song. Go for a ride. Take me along. Swing me on portraits shifting like sand…
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You throw stones expecting ripples on a pond, and find yourself ankle, knee, head deep in my life long search for what is worth more…
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Seed fell, sent yet tell me: Rest well. Let the mess be blessed defenseless. Wrestle the restless. Beget tenderness…
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Blessed, broken, bleeding, making a way for healing; entreating, believing, receiving a wound to renew, the sword pierced through…
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In my mother’s garden, the purple pries apart the vein from leaf, the bark from tree– as branches make an arc…
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On a quiet morn, you comfort the grief stricken and worn with such delight that their surprise is like an open door…
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Cross over the colors, pools of beauty a blur. Dare to discover past the seasons that were, here blooming a new in the dawn of mid-June…
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Reach into the water. See what you find. Pull out good gifts to measure divine life put on the table, steady and sure…
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Stay right there– don’t move an inch. Let me capture in time this moment of bliss and of sorrow so happily intertwined…
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Opaque from the day to day, tainted by all life has thrown my way. In darkness there is no image…
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Oh how little let me be, not to hide, but find in thee my selfish self yet un-prevailed and make of death an open veil…
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Remember last summer? Magical and miserable, enchanting and exacting, restful and restrictive, rejuvenating and painstakingly cruel. How can we have one without the other?…
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I crawled upon my belly, following the branched trees, swallowing what life humbly gave for me to eat, till suddenly a stillness…
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We followed the sound as a hum into a roar, water poured off that great precipice, dissipating in mist above and lake below…
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Clouds break. Breath takes in a moment of sunlight. Soft wind, I begin to open in good time. As leaves need room to unfold…
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I hope that you are happy. I pray your worries few and those that seem to cling soon flee, running away from you…
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And here we find ourselves again, in old and new and could have been. Not should have– for we cannot see nor feign to know what ought to be…
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The quarter century dawned as the heart within her longed for the days of passing to be everlasting, but she could not yet hear heaven’s song…
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Sprout up and grow. Come close and know that all great trees start as seeds. Listen and heed till you come to believe…
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Few places are better than a library: Quiet contentment and books to read, spaces to sit and to contemplate, where no one will ask– are you done with your plate?
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